Seeing Jesus
Third Sunday of Easter, Year A
The Road to Emmaus III, Daniel Bonnell
Acts 2:14, 36-41 | Psalm 116 | 1 Peter 1:17-23 | Luke 24:13-35
It ain’t those parts of the Bible I can’t understand that bother me, it’s the parts I do understand. Mark Twain
I recently lost a dear friend, a wise, gracious, winsome soul who was not incidentally my spiritual director for more than twenty years. She encouraged me in the contemplative life—scarcely my natural bent—and always thought more of my halting efforts than I ever could. Like all wise persons, she was more a listener than a talker, and when she spoke it was to remind me of a few simple truths, the most essential of which was that God loves me—that God loves each of us—without exception, full stop, period. But the thing I recall most clearly, likely because I heard her say it so many times, was this: “The spiritual life is simple. But it isn’t easy.”
That bit of wisdom, it seems to me, is kept well in mind whenever we write about or proclaim the good news that God’s reign of shalōm is within our grasp. Sometimes the texts we work to interpret are, in fact, simple, and we do a disservice to those to whom we speak and write if we overinterpret them, whether we seek to be profound or clever. This is especially so when we exposit a passage as familiar as the story of the two disciples who met Jesus unawares on the road to Emmaus.
As is often the case, the attention we give to the story’s context makes a difference for how we read it. By the time we meet them, the two disciples were members of a house divided; the Galilean women went to the tomb that morning at dawn to prepare Jesus’s body found it empty except for “two men in dazzling clothes” who informed them that Jesus was not there but had risen (or, more accurately, “had been raised”—’ouk ’estin ōde ’all’ ēgerthē). The two reminded the women that Jesus himself had told them as much not long before. The women returned to the house where the disciples were staying and relayed the news “to the eleven and all the rest.” But their story was received, at least by the apostles, as merely an unbelievable “idle tale.”
Only Peter thought the women’s report worthy of investigation; he ran to the tomb, saw it empty except for the burial shroud, and walked away “amazed at what had happened.” The verb rendered “amazed” by some English translations and “wondering” by many others is thaumázein, which both Plato and Aristotle identified as that sense of wonder which evokes reflection and contemplation; Plato called it “where philosophy begins.” All this suggests Peter left the tomb understanding he had seen something wonderful (i.e., something that filled him with wonder) without quite understanding its meaning; something remarkable had happened, but what?
All of which is to say that the two disciples walking the Emmaus road that afternoon may have been more than a little bewildered about what was going on. Their conversation likely reflected their confusion. Although we are not privy to what Luke had in mind when he wrote that they spoke of “all these things that had happened,” it’s a solid bet that “these things” included the women’s and Peter’s visits to the tomb. Jesus joined their walk as an unrecognized fellow traveler and casual listener to their conversation; when he asked what they were going on about, they spoke to him as if he were an uninformed provincial and explained to him what had happened to their now-crucified teacher, whom they had hoped was the Messiah, “the one to redeem Israel.” They ended their otherwise-tragic story by recounting the morning’s news from the tomb; it seems to have been empty, they said, but no one had seen Jesus, nor did they have any idea about where to look for him.
Jesus’s response was hardly empathetic. These men were his disciples, and even casual readers of the New Testament know that Jesus, when he became exasperated by his disciples’ thickheadedness, was quick to let them know they were being daft. His reproof quickly turned to an “OK, let me explain this one more time” lesson: “beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interpreted to them the things about himself in all the scriptures.” Whether the disciples wanted to hear more from their new companion, found something vaguely familiar in his speech and mannerisms, or just liked the guy despite his sharp words, they invited him to stay with them in the village they were approaching. It was there that they realized their companion was more than a master of the scriptures. At the evening meal, “he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them,” just as he had a few days earlier when he celebrated the Passover with the apostles, and in that eucharistic moment they recognized him—just before he vanished.
Although it might be interesting to speculate, from the perspective of psychology or neuroscience, as to why the two disciples failed to see Jesus until that moment, it would neither settle anything nor help us understand the text, which affords the reader a theologically richer and yes, simpler account. The men did not see Jesus because they were not looking for him—or perhaps rather, because they did not know where to look for him. To be clear, this was and is not a problem unique to them. It’s easy to castigate the disciples for not paying attention to all the scriptures had to say about the Messiah, or, for that matter, all Jesus had taught them, but that would be throwing stones from the comfort of our own glass house, for we, too, often fail to see Jesus, even from the vantage point of having been instructed by the New Testament and generations of wise sisters and brothers about where to look. Jesus has promised to be with us in our celebration of the Eucharist, in the breaking of bread and raising the cup. He has promised to be with us in and through each other, all members of his one body. And of course, he has promised that he can always be found in all those who have been cast away because of their particular varieties of the brokenness we all share: the poor—hungry and thirsty, unclothed and unsheltered—the sick, the lonely, the incarcerated, the persecuted, and the harassed.
Some years ago, I found myself running late and in a hurry to leave town as soon as I completed a couple of small errands. I recall it was a cold, rainy day in late November. I left my office, put my bag in the car, and made the three-block walk downtown to pick up something at the pharmacy. As I exited the store, I encountered a woman who asked me if had any spare change to give. She was wet and shivering, and her face showed the wear and tear wrought by poverty, hunger, and probably homelessness.
I knew I could give her things that would help her, at least in the short term—a hot drink, a meal, a coat and maybe a hat—but I was in a hurry. I pulled out my wallet and found a five-dollar bill, which I handed to her, and as she thanked me in the practiced manner of those often forced to live by begging, I turned and walked back to campus. I unlocked the car, sat down, and started the engine. Then, just as I took hold of the gearshift, I realized what I had been just looking at without seeing. I had just put a five-dollar band-aid on my conscience, without seeing that the person who had accepted the money was not merely a beaten-down homeless woman, but Jesus, who taught us that he would be present in “the least of these brothers and sisters of mine” ( Matthew 25:40). Five lousy bucks…
But here’s the thing: as liable as we are to fail to recognize Jesus hiding in plain sight, we know where to look, and we can learn to attend to what we see so that we slowly become better, growing in the understanding that Jesus is always with us, and always offering opportunities to do those works of love that point to God’s peaceable kingdom. It’s simple. But it’s not easy.